


Wounded and Worn

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Greg finds him wandering the streets and takes him home, John doesn't expect to find Mycroft there too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The car pulled up to the curb. John blinked at it, not one of Mycroft’s thank God, but he was surprised when the window rolled down and Greg appeared. “Get in, John, you’ll catch your death out here.”

 _Would that be so bad_? Thought John as he moved automatically to get into the car. It was raining and cold and like usual he was underdressed for the weather. Greg’s car was warm and dry and he was surprised that the car’s clock showed it was nearly midnight.

“What are you doing out so late?” He asked as they drove through the dark streets.

“Had some paperwork to catch up on. You can spend the night with me.”

John wasn’t inclined to argue. Baker Street felt haunted these days, which was why he’d been walking anyway. His knee twinged and he rubbed it without thinking. He’d never been to Greg’s flat before as Greg climbed the stairs and got the door. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, going into the kitchen to turn the kettle on.

Looking around, John took in the flat. He knew Greg and his wife had divorced sometime the year before and the flat certainly shouted bachelor. He found himself deducting as he looked around, though he was surprised to see an expensive looking bottle of lotion sitting on a bookshelf. That certainly didn’t look like it belonged to Greg Lestrade.

“Here,” Greg came out of the kitchen and handed him a mug. John somewhat wished it was something stronger, but he really didn’t need to drink right now. If he did he might never stop.

“So, this is where you live?” he said lamely, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah,” Greg reached for his soaked coat and hung up behind the door.

 The action reminded John again of Sherlock and he winced. Then he blinked, seeing the other coat hanging up. “That’s…not your coat.”

“This? No, it’s not.” Greg hung up his own coat, knocking over the umbrella.

John froze, then stood so quickly he knocked over his tea. “He’s here?”

“Mycroft? Yes,” said Greg without looking, grabbing a towel to mop up the tea.

John’s stomach lurched as he took a step back. Greg was between him and the door. “Why the hell is he here?”

Greg looked up at him then, catching his tone. “Why are you so angry with him?”

“Couldn’t he have done something? I mean, they smeared his brother in all the papers and I never heard one peep…”

“John,” Greg cut him off. “He lost his brother. You lost your best friend. We’ve all lost here.”

“That still doesn’t explain what he is doing in your flat.”

“Gregory and I are lovers,” Mycroft’s voice as he stepped out  of the hall. “If you must know.” He still managed to look regal in a tightly tied dressing gown in a blue that set off his eyes.

“You…two…? I didn’t…” He sunk to seat.

“I’m not, but you know, Holmes boys…” Greg gave a one shouldered shrug.

John nodded helplessly. He did know, all too well. He buried his head in his hands, not knowing what do now. He should just go home, leave them to…whatever they were doing.

Greg walked over and sat on the arm of the chair. “John,” he said carefully, putting one hand on his back.

A small sob broke from John. No one had touched him that way in months. Oh sure there had been hugs and condolences, but that sort of gentle touch? He’d always been so careful with anyone else. But Sherlock had touched him that way when he’d had a nightmare or in the small hours of the morning.  But that touch was gone now and John found he needed it the way a drowning man needed air. He turned and buried his head against Greg’s shoulder.

“I’m here,” said Greg softly slipping down to sit on the floor.

John took a breath and looked into Greg’s dark eyes. Before he could change his mind he leaned in and kissed him, capturing his lips with a desperate moan.

Greg opened his mouth to him as John’s hands ran along the stubble on his cheeks. After a few heartbeats of desperation, John pulled back, blushing furiously as he looked at the floor. “It’s okay,” said Greg, cupping his cheek and making him look at Mycroft.

Mycroft had a tiny smile on his face as he gave a nod, taking a seat in the armchair and arranging himself. Greg kissed John, drawing his attention back as he sucked his lower lip. John’s hands slid through his hair; not the curls he was used to, but what Greg was doing felt so very good. His cock stirred in his jeans and he rocked up slightly, needing.

“I’m going to take care of you,” promised Greg as he broke the kiss. His strong hands slid under John’s jumper, caressing his bare skin. John’s eyes closed and he relaxed in the chair as Greg tugged the jumper up and off, leaving him exposed. For once he didn’t even think about the scar as he was kissed up his breastbone until Greg captured his lips again.

John’s eyes opened again. With a sudden burst of energy, he grabbed the front of Greg’s shirt and flipped them around so it was Greg on the chair and John standing over him. “John?” started Greg.

John kissed him hard as he slid into his lap, grinding against him until Greg moaned and gasped. He yanked open Greg’s shirt, scattering buttons. Behind him he heard Mycroft shift, but he made no move to stop him as he kissed his lover again, dragging blunt nails down his chest and biting at his lips.

Glancing over his shoulder, John reached for Greg’s belt. “Enjoying this, Mycroft?” he growled. “Do you want me to fuck him the way I fucked Sherlock? You Holmes are a twisted bunch, aren’t you?”

Mycoft regarded him cooly. “Whatever was between my brother and yourself is between the two of you.”

“Was,” spat John. “Over now, isn’t it? He jumped. He didn’t give a damn that I was standing there. He jumped.”

“John.” Greg soothed as he wrapped his arms around John’s waist, holding him firmly. Mycroft’s face was carefully unreadable.

Turning back to Greg, John kissed him again, tugging at his trousers, hands clumsy.  Greg’s hands slipped down to free John with much more control, wrapping around his length secure and strong.

“Jesus,” moaned John. Greg’s free hand smoothed up his back, gentling him like a skittish colt. He felt the anger melt as he rested his head on Greg’s shoulder and bit back a sob.

“You’re safe with us,” promised Greg, pushing off his own pants and trousers and toing off his shoes.

John let go of a hysterical giggle. “I don’t even know anymore,” he admitted.

Greg nipped at his ear. “I do want you, John,” he confessed.

John pulled back and studied Greg’s face. He could see that losing Sherlock had been hard on him too. He kissed him gently, unsurprised when lube was placed in his hand. Dropping his hand, he pushed a finger inside, making Greg moan as he prepared him. “Good,” moaned Greg.

His focus now only on Greg, John felt him shift underneath him. He added a second finger, then a third, watching his face. The only other man he’d ever slept with was Sherlock, so some part of him found it interesting to watch another face rocking back and moaning as his fingers did their work.

Greg handed him a condom and he slid it on, slicking himself before pressing inside of the older man. Greg moaned against, rocking up against him. John pressed his forehead to Greg’s shoulder as he took him, moving steadily. This was different, certainly, and even as he stroked him he knew he did not love Greg. No one could take Sherlock’s place; this was mere physical act: release.

Still, it had been a while and it did not take much time at all. He grunted as he came, no shouting of names. Greg kissed his cheek and followed him over a few moments later. Neither man spoke until they heard a noise near the door.

Mycroft stood at the door, coat on and umbrella in hand. Even John could read heartbreak in his eyes as he struggled with control. “You two comfort each other well,” he said carefully. “Goodbye Gregory.”

“No, Mycroft,” Greg pushed John off and yanked up his trousers, even as Mycroft turned the handle. “Wait, damnit.” John landed on the floor and watched as Mycroft stepped out. Cursing, Greg grabbed his own coat and threw it on. “I said wait!”

John watched silently, tears in his eyes as Greg chased after Mycroft. He sniffed and wiped his face. No one would chase after him. For a moment he thought of his gun back at the flat, but he shook his head. That wasn’t the way out. He stumbled to Greg’s bathroom and quickly cleaned himself up with shaking hands. He wouldn’t rely on Greg or Mycroft, or anyone else. John Watson could take care of himself. Straightening his clothes he grabbed his jacket and stepped out into the night.

Coming down the stairs and turning the corner he saw Mycroft and Greg sharing a slow and tender kiss. His heart ached, almost unbearably. Doing an about face he started walking the other way. “John.” Mycroft called him to halt and despite himself he did.

“I am sorry, John.” Mycroft stepped behind him. John was marginally aware he was holding Greg’s hand. Something certainly he and Sherlock had never done in public. “I did not expect to react that way.”

“Don’t go,” added Greg.

John closed his eyes, fighting back tears and losing. “I have already lost Sherlock,” he said, very quietly.

“You don’t have to lose us too,” said Greg, stepping to one side of him.

“Take me home, Inspector,” said John, not meeting his eyes.

Greg looked to Mycroft. “It’s late. Please, just take the couch.”

John’s gaze didn’t waver. With a sigh Greg dug the keys out of his coat pocket. “Come on then.”

He followed Greg to the car locked in silence. Greg said nothing else as he drove him back to Baker Street. John got out carefully, mindful of his knee. “You’ve got my number. If you ever need...” He was cut off by the slamming door.

Slowly he climbed the stairs. Sherlock’s dressing gown lay tossed across a chair where he’d left it. John gathered it in his arms and sat on the couch, breaking down, wondering what in the world would he do now.

Deep in his pocket his phone vibrated. With a sigh he pulled it out.

_You were the best thing to ever happen to my brother. If he never said it, he did love you.  MH_

John stared at his phone.  With a few more deep breaths he typed out a message to Greg.

_Changed my mind, I will take that couch. JW_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself catching Greg and Mycroft in bed.

They quickly came to an arrangement. John still lived at Baker Street, couldn’t leave Mrs. Hudson alone, couldn’t leave it all. But Greg cleared out his spare bedroom and a few nights a week John would show up on his doorstep. Sometimes Mycroft was there, more often he was not. They would sit on the sofa and watch telly until John couldn’t stay awake any longer, then go off to their separate beds.

John hardly slept, didn’t want the meds. Now instead of sand and desert his dreams were haunted by the terrible fall. If only he’d got there sooner. If only he’d said something different.  Sometimes he dreamed it was Sherlock who pulled the trigger, put the bullet in his shoulder. He’d stay awake the rest of the night then, arms wrapped around his knees, watching the clock creep towards morning.

This particular day had been a mess at the clinic. Few particularly bloody cases, but he did better work now that Sherlock wasn’t pulling him away every night; or perhaps he still was. Either way, he could pretend to function better. He walked into the Baker Street flat, looked around, touched Sherlock’s dressing gown, sighed, then turned for Greg’s.

He had a key for those nights when Greg worked late, but he always knocked. There was a moment of shuffling and the door opened. He saw Mycroft on the couch, sipping tea as if he were at the Queen’s own table. “You’re busy,” said John automatically.

“Aw, come in. You’re fine.” Greg opened the door wider and John stepped inside. “Rough day?” he asked.

“Bit, yeah.” He perched on the edge of Greg’s armchair and accepted the tea Greg handed them. Strictly Come Dancing was on the telly.

Slowly John relaxed into the chair. Greg slung one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and Mycroft leaned into him. He found himself wondering what had brought the two together, whether it was simply because of Sherlock or something else. Probably Sherlock and his sometimes contagious madness.

After a while there was a small noise and he saw Greg had nodded off. Mycroft glanced at John. “He does that,” he said softly so as not to wake him.

“You two are good together,” said John, just as softly.

Mycroft turned his attention back to the telly. John took that as his cue to head on in to bed. He slipped into the spare bedroom, changed and got under the covers, staring at the ceiling. Out of habit one arm was thrown to the side, though there was no nest of dark curls to tuck under his chin, no warm breath against his chest, no long legs thrown over his own.

Sometime late in the night a noise woke up. John lay awake a few long moments before realizing what he was. He blushed, but his curiosity got the better of him. Biting his lip he threw on a robe and slipped out of his room. Greg’s door was slightly ajar, as if it had been left open in haste. The moans coming from inside told him everything.

He should go back to his room. Or leave. But instead, John found himself drawn to that gap in the door. He knew it was wrong, but still he looked. The room was dark save for moonlight through the window. A tangle of limbs and soft moans, but he could just make out that Greg was on top of Mycroft, all control gone as he gasped and moaned beneath his lover.

“I have you,” whispered Greg. John froze as he heard words he’d whispered so many times to his own lover. Mycroft wrapped his legs around Greg’s hips, pulling him down for a needy kiss as he rocked up into him, one hand barely seen running through Greg’s silver hair.

Blushing furiously, John backed away as quietly as he could. He retreated back to his room and lay down again, one hand stealing down to wrap around his erection. It had been an intrusion, to watch them, even for a moment. But sometimes he could see something of Sherlock in Mycroft. His eyes closed as he remembered Sherlock beneath him, wanton and writhing. Begging John to go harder, deeper.

Stroking himself, John let himself remember for the first time since everything had happened. Really remember. The feel of Sherlock’s body, the scent of him, the taste of his skin. The swell of his lips when he’d been thoroughly kissed and the brightness in his eyes. Tears started behind John’s closed eyes, but he kept stroking himself, imagining it was Sherlock’s hand, so anxious at first, but then with growing confidence.

“It’s good,” whispered John, just like he’d told Sherlock on so many occasions. His other hand slid down to press a finger against his hole. Without lube it burned, but he deserved pain, and besides, pain told him he was alive. He rocked harder against himself, biting his lip as he came to avoid shouting.

“Sherlock I love you,” he sobbed quietly. Words he’d never said when the man was alive. But it didn’t need saying, did it? He rolled onto his stomach and grabbed a t-shirt to wipe himself up, crying harder but trying to keep quiet.

The morning sun woke him. John groaned and raised his head, rubbing his eyes and feeling the dried tears. There was a knock on the door. “John you don’t want to be late for work,” said Greg through the door.

“Thanks, I’ll be out in a minute,” called John, rolling onto his back.

He waited until Greg moved down the hall, then gathered his things to hop in the shower. When he got to the kitchen he was surprised to find Mycroft standing over the stove fixing breakfast. Of course he was dressed in his regular suit, with an apron thrown over it. He plated up an omelet and handed it to John. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, John.”

John fixed his morning tea and sat next Greg. Mycroft joined them in a couple of minutes. It all suddenly felt very domestic. He took a deep breath and focused on eating. After all, had to go to work, had to carry on. They were all reasonable adults here and he was in a better position than when he’d come back from Afghanistan.

“Thank you,” he said to both of them, gathering his things and heading off to work.


	3. New Years Eve

The year passed quicker than John would have imagined. He kept himself busy at the clinic, ending up at Greg's several nights a week. They didn't talk much; John was just glad for the company. On occasion late at night he'd hear Greg and Mycroft, but didn't get up to investigate again.

The holiday’s arrived and family obligations. John made appearances with his mother and sister, but escaped from them as quick as he could. Christmas Day he spent with Mrs. Hudson, trying not to think too much about the flat upstairs. She'd already said she would never rent it out to anyone else.

New Year's Eve found John back at Greg's. Mycroft had brought some very fine wine and they were all more than a little drunk. John got up to get some water from the kitchen and put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. Greg wrapped his arms around his waist. "You're under the mistletoe."

John turned and looked up at him, aware of dark eyes and strong hands. He leaned up and kissed Greg gently, pulling the man closer. After a long and tender kiss Greg pulled John to the couch, settling him between Mycroft and himself. “Touch him, Mycroft,” he said softly.

“Gregory,” there was hesitation, something John couldn’t read as he looked up into his eyes.

Leaning over John, Greg kissed his lover, putting Mycroft’s hand on John’s thigh. John moaned softly as his thumb started to stroke, watching in hazy amazement as they kissed slowly and comfortably.

Without speaking, both turned towards him, Mycroft leaning in to kiss the side of his neck while Greg kissed his llps. One pair of hands tugged at his jumper while the other pulled open his flies. John moaned and pushed at their clothes, vaguely aware of shirts coming off and trousers dropping.

Mycroft drew John into his lap. John moaned, wanting to give himself over to these two men. He leaned back and kissed the elder Holmes, trying not to compare them, but doing it anyway. His kiss was firm, carried more authority.

Greg’s mouth distracted him, wrapping around John’s cock. He moaned, rocking up and giving Mycroft room to press slicked fingers against his entrance. Everything moved in a haze of pleasure, simply amazing after so long without a lover’s touch.

Pulling off, Greg kissed John, then Mycroft. “Fuck him,” he growled.

Mycroft shifted John. There was the crinkle of a condom, then Mycroft was pressing inside. John cried out, Greg muffling his cries with kiss as he stroked him. Blindly, John fumbled for Greg’s cock, stroking him in return.

John rocked as Mycroft filled him. Maybe it would all be okay with these two here to catch him. Tears slid down his cheeks, guilt and pleasure and relief all in one. Sherlock was dead, he told himself silently. But he didn’t have to face this New Year alone.

Mycroft drove up faster. John was dimly aware of the clock striking twelve. He grunted and filled John, who followed right after with a moan. He opened his eyes to see Greg ripping open another condom with his teeth, tugging John off Mycroft’s softening cock. John groaned as Greg filled him, taking him hard and rough. He leaned forward, kissing Mycroft again, then John.

It was warm between the pair. Safe. Mycroft moved first, gently shifting John to the couch. “Let’s go to bed,” he said quietly, getting up and dropping his condom in the bin. Greg helped John up and they made their way to the big master bed. Mycroft tucked John in between them, giving him the barest ghost of a kiss.

John woke in the morning sore and with a throbbing headache. With a start he realized he was lying between Greg and Mycroft. Last night was fragments of memory; but clearly he’d slept with them both. Blushing, he attempted to extricate himself from bed without waking them, crawling to the end of the bed and slipping out. Greg snored and rolled over, but Mycroft spoke just as he got free of the sheets. “John,” his voice was a whisper that made him turn. In the morning light John could see guilt and worry.

“It’s fine,” John said with a smile, just as soft. It really felt fine too, warm, and safe and perfectly okay.  He leaned down to kiss Mycroft.

The man turned his head, closing his eyes.

It was like ice water poured down his spine. John frowned, guilt worming its way into his gut as he backed away. “I’ll just go back to my room then.”

Mycroft said nothing else as John fled. Was it only because John had been his brother’s lover? There was too much he didn’t know about Mycroft Holmes; the man was built of secrets. With a sigh, John headed for the shower, shivering and alone in the bright light of this morning. Whatever had happened last night was clearly a mistake, one he’d be sure not to make again.


	4. Consequences

In March, John met a woman named Mary. She’d just moved to London for work and was warm and kind. Like sunshine after a long hard rain. They hit it off right away, and for the first time in a year, John started to think maybe he could move on. “She’s wonderful,” he told Greg a few nights later with a genuine smile on his face. Mycroft was sitting at the table reading the paper.

“I’m glad, John, really.” The truth of it was plain on Greg’s face. “Should bring her ‘round for supper.”

“I was thinking I might. Maybe I won’t be needing your spare room quite so much.”

“You’re welcome any time you need it.”

Two days later John got an email while sitting in Baker Street. He stared at it, ice forming in his heart. _Job offer in New York. I have to take it. Keep in touch. Mary._

He stared around the flat. Many of Sherlock’s things still hung around. He’d been planning on having Mary over in a day or two and had started thinking about packing up the last of the dead man’s belongs. Now it all felt damned suffocating.

Slamming the laptop shut he went downstairs to take a cab to Greg’s place.

Greg and Mycroft were how John often found them, Greg watching telly, Mycroft reading a newspaper. Greg saw something was wrong first, standing up as John came in the door. “What happened?”

“Seems Mary got a job offer. In New York.” John stared daggers at Mycroft.

Greg looked between the two of them. “Mycroft what did you do?”

The man carefully folded the paper. “What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

John’s hands balled into fists. “Oh come off it. I meet a girl, she gets a sudden job offer? I don’t have to be Sherlock fucking Holmes to figure out who is responsible for that.”

Mycroft stood, face perfectly calm. “Perhaps you should simply be happy for her.”

John almost swung, almost bruised that calm face. But Greg’s voice stopped him. “Get out, Mycroft.”

He blinked, looking from John to his lover, the façade cracking. “What?”

Greg stepped between the two. “I said. ‘get out’. I am not going to let you treat John this way. How could you even…?” Greg took a breath, stalked to the door and picked up the umbrella. “Leave.”

Something broken crossed Mycroft’s eyes, but he swallowed, straightened himself and strode to the door, taking his umbrella. “Goodbye, Gregory.”

Greg said nothing as the door closed. John rubbed his face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Greg bitterly. “I told him before there’s certain things I will not tolerate.”

John swallowed and looked at Greg. They were both angry, and had every right to be. Though the fact that Greg was willing to kick Mycroft out for him was not unnoticed. Before he could change his mind, John crossed to Greg and kissed him hard.

Greg moaned and shoved John up against the wall, pushing his legs apart with his knee. John went for his belt, just needing to feel.  Biting Greg’s lip, he tasted blood, savored it on his tongue. With a groan, Greg turned them and pushed John onto the couch, knocking over a lamp and sending the room into shadows.

Kicking off his jeans and pants, John ran his nails down Greg’s back.  There was the sound of a bottle being opened, then Greg was pushing fingers inside. It hurt, but damned if John cared, arching up, encouraging him to do whatever he wanted.

After not enough time, Greg was pushing his cock inside, taking. John welcomed the pain, growling and biting at Greg’s ear, encouraging him to fuck him harder. He rocked up against him, cock trapped between them. He wanted this, needed this.

With a shout he came hard. Greg swore as he filled him; only then did John realize Greg hadn’t grabbed a condom. Well, not like he cared that much. Pulling back Greg looked down at him, studying his face. John leaned up and kissed him.

A few minutes after that they were settled in Greg’s bed, the man already snoring softly. John watched him sleep and sighed. He couldn’t do this. Not to Greg, and if he was honest with himself, not to Mycroft. Carefully he slipped out of bed and went to his own room. He hastily packed the few things he kept there, grabbed his toothbrush from the bathroom and went into the front room. The lamp was broken, so he quietly cleaned it up.

Three days later he was sitting in Baker Street staring at his computer. He’d started four emails to Mary and deleted every one. That path was gone now. Greg had texted him twice, but he’d ignored his phone. There was a knock at his door, which meant whoever it was had already been let in.

Getting up he started the kettle then went to the door, not entirely surprised to find Mycroft there, holding his umbrella. John let him and went into the kitchen to make tea, silence stretching out between them.

“I am sure you had reason,” said John finally as he handed Mycroft his cup.

Mycroft nodded. “I cannot say.”

“Greg’s a good man, Mycroft. It’s not too late for you and him.”

“Kind of you to say so, Doctor Watson.”

“I won’t go back to Greg’s. Its time I lived my own life, without so many ghosts.” He waved around the flat where most of Sherlock’s things were now hidden from sight.

Silence settled between them again until Mycroft finished his tea and set down the empty cup. “You yourself, are also a good man,” he said, heading for the door. John wondered what his real intention had been in coming here.

“Go talk to Greg,” said John.

Mycroft inclined his head and went out. John sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, wondering where things would go from here.

 


	5. Dinner

Late in September John checked his computer and was surprised to find an email from Molly Hooper:

_John, I know you’re probably busy and we haven’t chatted much since, well you know.  I hope you’re well. Something seems to be wrong with DI Lestrade. I was going to make an excuse about having you check something for me, but you know, never good at that sort of thing. Have you talked to him lately? He’s just not himself. And I know you were friends. Anyway, if you’d ever like to go out for coffee or something, let me know. Best, Molly Hooper._

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t seen Greg or Mycroft since the business with Mary in March. Molly meant well, of course, she always did. Picking up his mobile he sent two text messages. To his surprise he quickly got two replies, both in the affirmative. Nodding to himself he stood, grabbing his cane along with his coat; the knee had been acting up again.

He got to the restaurant and took the seat facing the door. Greg showed up a few minutes later, looking tired as he slipped into the booth. “This is rather sudden, John,” he said without preamble.

“How are you doing?” asked John, ignoring the tone.

“Fine. Work, you know. You?” Greg sighed and sipped the pint the waiter delivered.

“Yes, working a lot. Keeps me busy. How is Mycroft?” John watched him carefully.

“No idea. Haven’t talked to him,” Greg found the menu far more interesting to look at.

John’s heart skipped a beat. “Not since March?”

“No. The steak sounds good, what do you think?” Greg kept his eyes on the menu.

“I am certain it’s fine. “ John ordered the chicken when the waiter came. “I keep busy enough with the clinic.”

“You’re a good Doctor, John. I’m sure they’re happy to still have you.”

“Seems Sarah is, anyway. Any good cases at the Yard?”

“Nothing we can’t handle.” Greg fidgeted with his knife.

The door to the restaurant opened and John took a breath. Mycroft’s face was guarded as he walked over. He’d put on a little more weight, walked a little slower. Greg saw John’s face and turned. “Mycroft,” he said stiffly.

“Gregory. I did not realize you would be accompanying us for dinner.”

“Could say the same about you,” said Greg, watching as Mycroft pulled out a chair and sat ramrod straight.

John reached for a piece of bread. “Well I am glad you are both here,” he spread a bit of butter on it.

“Clearly that was your intention,” said Mycroft, quickly ordering a glass of wine as the waiter came around again. “And what is your purpose?”

“You two need to talk,” said John, watching them. Greg was picking at his napkin.

“Gregory has made it quite clear that he does not wish to do so.” Mycroft rested his hands on the handle of his umbrella.

Greg sighed. “I suppose I could have given you a chance to explain,” he admitted.

“I cannot give you any satisfactory answer,” said Mycroft carefully, sipping his wine delicately.

For a moment Greg looked about to slap the glass out of his hand. Instead he grabbed the front of Mycroft’s suit and yanked him into a kiss that made John quite glad they had a dark corner seat. “I’ve missed you, you bastard,” growled Greg when he finally let go.

“And I you,” admitted Mycroft, weaving his fingers through Greg’s on the table.

John let go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Greg and Mycroft watched each other, and he had no doubt they were having an entire conversation without him. He sipped his drink and was quite glad when the food arrived, breaking the spell.

“Gregory, will you come to my home tonight?” asked Mycroft halfway through dinner. John smiled.

“Yes, I think that will be a fantastic end to the evening,” grinned Greg, all the tension gone from his face. “John you should come over tomorrow, we can watch the game.”

John was picking at his plate. “Hmm? Sure, that sounds fine.” He watched Greg and Mycroft finish their dinner and then Mycroft was helping Greg with his Jacket and they were both thanking him for inviting them out. John smiled as they went, looking at the empty plates and his own glass. For a moment he thought he saw a reflection and turned his head. But it was gone.

He shook his head. That ghost should have long ago now been put to rest. Taking up his cane he made his way for the door, since Mycroft had already paid for supper. The autumn air was chill as he pulled his coat a little tighter around himself and called a cab.

He glanced over as he headed home to Baker Street, but of course there was no one sitting on the other side. He squeezed the cane a little tighter. Trying not to think too much, wondering what it would have been like if Sherlock hadn’t jumped. Greg was certainly right when he said Holmes boys were different.

The cab pulled up and John paid him, going up the stairs slowly. The flat was dark, but he didn’t bother turning on a light. Quietly he went into what had once been Sherlock’s room. He stripped down to his pants and stretched out on that big bed, wishing he could still smell the man in the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking maybe one more chapter after this.


	6. Shadows

John woke with a start. Noise; someone in the flat. He rolled to a seat and reached for the nightstand before remembering he was in Sherlock's bed. The gun was upstairs in his room. Silently cursing, John rolled out of bed and reached for his jeans. Footsteps in the hall. Dropping them he steadied himself before charging and tackling.

The taller man went down with a surprised grunt. John followed the sound and swung at his face. The man grabbed his wrist but after a brief struggle John had him pinned, sitting on his chest.

"John," he hissed.

Freezing, John peered down in the darkness. The body had more muscle, the hair was longer, unkempt. But he knew those eyes looking up at him. "No," he whispered, stumbling to his feet, fumbling for the light. "No, no this is...you're dead...I saw you..." He got the light on and stared.

Sherlock had propped himself up on his elbows, watching John. His shirt was half untucked, the eyes tired but hopeful as he watched him.

John put a hand on the wall, knee threatening to give. He was vaguely aware he was standing in just his pants. "You're alive," he said at last.

Sherlock's mouth formed the O that started 'obviously' but he swallowed the word and nodded instead, as if not trusting himself to speak.

Things clicked sharply into focus in John's head. "Mycroft knew."

"Yes," said Sherlock quietly.

John slid down the wall to sit on the floor. "I hope you realize what that man is willing to sacrifice to protect you."

Sherlock's eyes steadily met his. "Perhaps in some respects my brother and I have more in common than a name."

Blinking, John processed the words. "You were protecting me?"

Another nod. John crawled to him, moving over his body and kissing him deeply. Sherlock moaned softly, hands coming up to hold his shoulders. John fisted a hand in his shaggy hair. The man tasted better than he remembered.

Pulling back, he watched Sherlock's face. "I slept with Greg a couple times and Mycroft once."

"I know." Sherlock's voice held no judgment.

A ghost of a smile flitted across John's face. He leaned in to his him again, deliberately, as if he could kiss away the long absence. Sherlock's hands went to his hips, thumbs stroking the bare flesh above the band.

An ache filled his heart. John broke the kiss, starting to cry and shake with relief. Sherlock kissed his cheeks and gathered him in his arms before carrying him to bed. "I'm sorry," he said brokenly. "I didn't know...didn’t see how much..."

Cutting him off with a kiss, John started pushing Sherlock’s clothes aside and wiggling out of his pants. Sherlock kissed down his jaw to suck on his neck, running his hands along his body as if trying to remember the way the muscles lay under his skin.

Reaching into the bedside table, John found the condoms and lube. Hoping the lube was still good, he coated his fingers. Looking down at Sherlock he started fingering himself, moaning as he rocked above him.

Sherlock ran his hands up John’s thighs, biting his lip as he watched. John wiped his eyes with his free hand and carefully guided Sherlock inside of him. “Oh God,” he groaned, putting his hands on Sherlock’s chest, feeling muscles that hadn’t been there before. Sherlock cupped his hips, eyes shining as he watched him.

“John,” he breathed softly, “I have had much time to reflect upon things between you and I. There is only one conclusion I can reach. I love you.”

Breath catching, John settled fully on Sherlock’s cock. He down and kissed an escaped tear. “I love you too.”

Sherlock rolled them over, moving frantically against John. He writhed against the pillows, needing, offering, feeling like his heart might explode from the waves of emotion washing over them both. He cried out, incoherent, one hand reaching down to stroke himself off, knowing he couldn’t last long, not with his lover doing _that._  He came with a shout, harder than he had since Sherlock had left, the world whiting out with the force of it.

When John was aware again, Sherlock was curled up against his side. He smiled and ran his hands through his lover’s hair and kissed his head. Sherlock kissed his chest. “Mycroft contacted me after New Year’s.”

John’s hand stilled. “We were all pretty drunk. I don’t really remember what happened.”

“He apologized, to me. Told me he might not be qualified to continue watching over you. I assured him there was no one else I would choose.”

“Did he tell you that he and Greg broke up for a while? It was because I met a woman and he made sure she was transferred.”

Sherlock leaned up and kissed him. “No, but I knew he and Lestrade were having difficulties. I am sorry I could not be here.”

“They’re together again, now. Can you tell me what you were doing?”

“Dismantling Moriarty’s web. I had to appear to be dead. If not they would have killed you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.”

John cupped his face. “I love you, Sherlock. And I forgive you for leaving me. Just don’t you ever do it again.”

“There is nothing on earth that could make me do so.”

John kissed him again. They four of them would need to all sit down and talk, but at least they had a place to start from. Sherlock tucked against his side once more, arm thrown across his chest and John closed his eyes, knowing that finally all was right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this, and I hope the conclusion was satisfying.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


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